


The Blur of Our Wandering

by destimushi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, New Beginnings, Off Screen Minor Character Death, Self-Loathing, Survivor Guilt, handjobs, mentions of a serial killer, self-harm issues, slight dub-con, survivor Dean, truck driver Castiel, truck stop bathroom hookup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 14:43:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11359581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: Castiel is most at peace when he’s on the job. It’s the same stretch of road ahead, the same problems being left behind, and driving his truck from one side of the country to the other quiets the voices in his head.When he pulls over at one of his favourite diners along the way, a chance meeting with a green-eyed stranger fires his blood and leaves him wanting. Little does he know he will run into the same man two more times that night and change his life forever.This is a story about two men, one running from his past and one hiding from his present, and when they collide, they find out they’re haunted by the same demons.





	The Blur of Our Wandering

**Author's Note:**

> Yay posting day for the [Destiel Big Bang](http://deancastielbigbang.tumblr.com/) is finally here! It's always so exciting and yet anxiety-inducing and I don't think I'll ever get over that! Art is by the lovely [Aceriee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aceriee/pseuds/Aceriee), please check our her [post](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11359206) and show her some love on [tumblr](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/post/162472797216/illustrations-made-for-the-blur-of-our-wandering)! 
> 
> As always a big thank you to my beta [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay) for saving me from embarrassing mistakes.

 

 _Man_ _'s enemies are not demons, but human beings like himself. - Lao_ _Tzu_  

The engine coughed as the brakes squealed, bringing the tires to a smooth halt. Castiel parked the semi with practiced ease, his fingers stroking the red skull gear shift knob once more—for good luck—before hopping out of the cabin. The sun dazzled his eyes, turning them into little blue slits. He inhaled deeply, filling his lungs to burst with exhaust and the smell of frying grease, the scent so familiar it was almost endearing.

His knees protested loudly even as his legs revelled in their newfound freedom. His spine popped and crackled like puffed rice cereal as he stretched his arms toward the clear blue sky, fingers interlocking as he rocked from side to side. There was something to be said about the way his back spasmed, clinging to the tension he so desperately tried to wring out.  

Maybe fifteen hours was pushing it. Castiel shook his head and shushed the tiny voice reminding him that ten years ago, he’d easily go twenty-four before stopping. He still loved the thrum of the engine and his own peaceful company when he was on the road, but as much as these cross country trips were a numbing sanctuary for his mind, the long hours were wreaking havoc on his body.  

The thought of putting down roots somewhere—with a white picket fence and a nine to five—churned his stomach. Suddenly, he didn’t mind the aches and pains and popping spine as much.  

His stomach growled like trapped thunder. Castiel had only a moment to process the complaint before his bladder sent him a more pressing report, threatening him with mandatory laundry service if he didn’t find a bathroom, and fast. With one last yank on the door handle, making sure his worldly possessions were secure, Castiel sprinted y across the parking lot.  

Otto’s Bar and Grill was always a favourite, and while the restaurant looked like it fell from a 50’s portal, there was something quaint and subtly homey about the place that always made Castiel feel at ease. It was not with ease nor grace that Castiel stumbled into the dated bar and grill and beelined for the restroom without as much as a greeting to the waitress. She smirked and gave him a small wave as he disappeared behind the door to the men’s room.  

Castiel ran to the nearest urinal and yanked down his zipper with such speed that would render the Flash the second fastest man alive. Sweet, sweet relief flooded through him, and it wasn’t until he was almost finished that he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck raise, tickled by a gaze so intense Castiel was sure it pierced his skin. He was almost afraid to look behind him, his brain choosing that moment to remind him of every story he’d ever heard about bathroom hook ups at truck stops. In vivid detail.

Not that Castiel didn’t find men attractive. He just hadn’t, in his fifteen years of trucking, met anyone who had ignited enough fire for him to want to drop his pants and share a passionate romp in a bathroom stall.

Carefully—after giving it the good one-two shake—Castiel zipped up and hurried to the sink; the plan was to wash his hands and make like a tree, avoiding eye contact at all cost in case it was misconstrued as an invitation. But the owner of the heebie-jeebie inducing stare was not some pot-bellied predator, but rather a slender young man with piercing eyes. Their gaze found each other like magnets in the mirror and Castiel shivered; so much for no eye contact.

The stranger’s eyes shone brightly, the green a reflection of an enchanted forest with wizened old trees. Castiel turned on the tap and stuck his hands under the cold spray, but he was keenl aware of the body inching closer to him, blocking the exit. He finished washing his hands—taking painstaking care to make sure every fingernail was clean—and grabbed a few paper towels before turning to find the man’s nose inches from his own. 

Castiel lost himself in the galaxy of freckles dotted across pale skin and endless lashes that fanned prettily against rosy cheeks. He had an inch, maybe two, on Castiel, the difference just enough to force Castiel’s head back to bring their lips that much closer.  

“E-excuse me,” Castiel stuttered.

“You’re excused.”

The melodious voice reminded Castiel of silk and chocolate and everything luxurious. The stranger pressed in close, backing Castiel against the edge of the wet counter. Water soaked into his jeans, cool like electricity. 

It was the jolt Castiel needed to catch his breath and reel his brain back in from outer space. He pushed the man away—his hand trembling ever so slightly—and held him at arm’s length. “I—” he swallowed and cleared his throat. “I should be going.”

The stranger batted his hand away and pressed himself against Castiel in one hard, long line. The back of Castiel’s thighs dug into the edge of the counter; it was cold and it hurt, but neither bothered him. His breath hitched as an unmistakable hardness pushed against him, and the heat stirred his own cock to life.

Christ on a cracker. Castiel was not getting turned on by someone that looked young enough to be his son in the bathroom of a diner at a truck stop. Especially since he was sure if the man wasn’t so damn pretty, he’d have punched him by now.

Yet the roads were endless, and the nights spent driving only got lonelier. Castiel's body responded—even as his mind put up a token fight—to the hard little jerk of the guy’s fingers tangled in his hair as he pulled Castiel’s head back, their lips hovering so close he could taste their mingled breath. Castiel’s heart raced a hundred miles an hour, a marathon stuck in place, pumping enough blood from his brain to his crotch to make him dizzy with need.   

He clung to the edge of the counter, his nails digging into the cheap wood as a tether for the remainder of his good senses.

For a moment it looked as if the young man would kiss him, and Castiel would have let him. Instead, he pressed past Castiel’s parted lips to latch onto the sensitive hollow behind his ear. Warm tongue and sharp teeth lapped and nipped at him, teasingly light, like butterflies dancing along his skin. 

A shuddering moan echoed around the dinky bathroom. Castiel’s boots squeaked on the wet tiled floor as his feet shuffled apart, allowing the lithe body to fall into place between his legs. He felt the young man smirk wetly against his neck and blushed. Slowly, Castiel released his fingers from the counter to grip fistfuls of the stranger’s soft, well-worn flannel.  

The warm body stiffened beneath Castiel’s fingertips. He yanked back and there was a flutter of frozen panic in the man’s lust-blown eyes as he wrenched himself away from Castiel. He blinked owlishly as if seeing Castiel for the first time, and the realization twisted something nasty deep in Castiel’s gut; he could have been anyone, and the boy would have jumped on him.  

The mouth that had moments ago held such wicked, delicious promises pressed in a thin, white line. The confident young man dissipated like a ghost, replaced by a wide-eyed boy who looked guilt-ridden and fearful.  

“Fuck,” the boy gasped. “I’m–oh fuck. I fucked up, I’m so sorry, I–I—” With a million things unsaid, the young man took one staggering step back and bolted, the bathroom door swinging shut on his receding shadow.

So much for spontaneous, passionate bathroom sex.

A good portion of Castiel’s blood was still southbound. Thankfully, his brain snapped out of it enough to drop the floodgate to his cock.

The boy had vanished when Castiel finally emerged from the bathroom. The pretty waitress pointed to a table in the far corner before grabbing a menu and walking over to meet him.

“Been a while, Bela.” Castiel sank into his seat and smiled at her weakly. “Tell me again how a girl like you wound up working at a place like this.”

Bela put the menu down and perched delicately on the edge of the table. “We all make choices and live with the consequences, Castiel,” she replied with a twinkle in her eyes. “So, the usual?”

Castiel handed the menu back without a glance. “You know it.” Bela grabbed the menu and was walking away when Castiel called out, “Hey. There was a...a young man, a bit taller than me, dirty blonde hair. He was in the bathroom. I’ve never seen him before, seemed a bit young to be doing routes. Do you know anything about him?”

“Oh, him. He started showing up a couple months ago.” Bela turned and studied Castiel, her blue-green eyes narrowing just a fraction. “He comes and goes, quiet kid, never eats anything.”

===

He was so cold.

Dean rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blew warm air into his hands before pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders. He slid lower in the car seat, the leather protesting in whispered squeaks.

He’d fucking done it again. It was so easy to let his himself slip away. He thought he’d moved past it, that he didn’t need to escape anymore, but that obviously wasn’t the case.

Familiar numbness spread from the bottom of his feet to the tip of his fingers, but nothing ached or hurt or stung. Maybe, just maybe, Dean had avoided doing something outrageously stupid this time. He closed his eyes, and broken memories flittered across the inside of his eyelids. Disappointment and disgust lined up to punch him in the gut.

The glide of soft hair lingered between his fingers, and the heat of supple skin was a faint memory against his lips. The events from earlier came to him in broken pieces, the desperate grind of hips and the taste of delicious little moans on the tip of his tongue, but Dean couldn’t remember the other person or how he ended up back in his car. His neck ached, but he ignored it and peered out the windshield.

Orange tinted clouds moseyed along the blood-red sky as the sun dipped below the horizon. He scanned the parking lot; there were a few sedans and a hatchback littered about, but what caught his attention was the lone figure coming from behind the diner, trudging towards the only semi parked in the lot.

Flashes of pink lips and stormy blue eyes flashed before him, knocking the breath from his lungs. It was him.

Dean cursed and dropped lower in his seat, hoping that the fast approaching darkness would swallow him whole. His skin felt tight, and every nerve screamed for him to get the hell out of there. But there was another part of him, the part that brought him to this truck stop in the first place, that wanted to do the exact opposite.

The not-so-distant figure stretched beside his truck, his body a languid, long line curving left and right. His hair was dishevelled, and Dean swallowed when the man’s lips parted in a yawn. He was wearing a different shirt, one that didn’t match the one in the Picasso of Dean’s memories, but he remembered the feel of that body—solid muscles hidden beneath a thin layer of softness born of too many months on the road—molded against him, chasing away the bone-chilling numbness. 

Dean shuddered and curled in on himself, painfully and acutely aware of how utterly alone he was. The outside world blurred; he lost focus, and his chest was a hollow that ached to be filled. He needed it filled, needed—   

The man stretched once more before unlocking the cabin of his truck and disappearing inside. The semi’s lights blinked on like the eyes of a slumbering dragon and the glow set Dean’s heart pounding. He tasted fear like a tangible thing on his tongue, chalky and bitter.

“Please, please don’t leave,” he murmured as he yanked on the door handle and bolted out into the darkening night.  

When he reached the truck, he was out of breath. The engine sat idle, purring softly. Dean ran up to the driver’s side and knocked on the door. For a second it seemed like the truck would pull away anyway.  

Terror gripped him, an iron fist around his stomach, squeezing until bile rose into his throat. Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other and waited, hopeful and just a little desperate. But the truck didn’t pull away. Instead, the window rolled down smoothly, the soft whir of the motor a balm on the ragged edges of Dean’s frayed nerves.  

It took a moment, but wary suspicion on the heel of recognition lit up those blue eyes like lanterns. “It’s...you.” The man in the truck squinted at him. 

“Uh, yeah, hey.” Dean withered under the guarded stare; he had no clue the weight of blue on his shoulders could be so damn crushing.  

“Can I help you?”  

“I…” Dean paused. He what? Judging by the cool reception, Dean must have completely made a fool of himself. Instead of standing there and making more demands, Dean should thank his stars the man didn’t scream at him to go to hell. Or punch him in the face.  

But his hands—tucked away in his pockets—shook uncontrollably, and even if he could hide the tremors from the world, he couldn’t hide them from himself.  

“I’m a bit lost,” Dean lied. “Can I...I mean, do you have a map? My phone’s dead.” That last bit wasn’t a lie. The battery in his phone was dead, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had charged it.  

Uncertainty flashed across the man’s face. Dread lodged in Dean’s throat, a big, jagged rock that hurt when he swallowed. Icy blue eyes drilled into him until Dean’s eyes dropped to study a crack in the concrete. When he dared to look up again, the stranger’s gaze softened, and his lips curled into a sad little smile. “Yeah, sure thing. It’s an old-school paper map, though; I don’t have a fancy smartphone.”  

The window rolled up, but something gave the man pause and he turned his gaze back to Dean; Dean found himself smothered by it.   

“This isn’t my usual rig; I’m not sure where the map is. It’s getting a bit chilly, though, so you’re welcome to climb in here and wait while I look for it, if you’d like,” the man offered. He  smiled and quickly added, “No funny business, I promise.” 

Dean winced and sagged under a fresh wave of guilt. Funny business? That was one hundred percent all Dean. He should have refused; these few minutes of decent human interaction were all he deserved. His eyes darted over to the diner. The small restaurant was nearly empty, and there wasn’t a table with a lone patron. He could wait or go somewhere else, but the thought of being alone right then poured dread like ice down his spine.  

“Ah, thanks, man.” Dean’s face pulled into a tight smile. He took a deep, shuddering breath and the tension lifted from his shoulders, if only slightly. Dean hated that he needed someone—anyone—like his lungs needed air, but this self-loathing was still better than being trapped in his own head.

Inside the truck, it was just as cold, but the presence of another person warmed him. Dean settled in the wide passenger seat and stroked the velvety cover with idle fingers, enjoying the smooth glide beneath his skin.  

The man leaned over, one hand on the steering wheel as the other rummaged around in the glove compartment. His elbow pulled back and bumped Dean’s knee; the contact spread warmth to his toes. The cold receded, along with thought. Dean scooted forward and pressed his knee in little circles against the stranger’s shoulder.

The man froze, turned and glanced over his shoulder, then straightened slowly before moving on to study Dean’s face. “Hey, can you shift back a little?” His voice was hoarse. Need pooled in sticky puddles in the pit of Dean’s stomach.

“Sorry.” Dean’s reply was too quick, his tone too light and was anything but apologetic. His mind slipped into an expanse of nothingness. It was always so much easier to breathe without all that _thinking_ weighing him down. He flexed his fingers slowly as if testing out their flexibility for the first time. “About earlier in the restaurant—”  

“Look,” the stranger with the too-piercing eyes cut him off, and Dean forced air into his lungs, his body vibrating with anticipation and so much need. “I don’t know what happened earlier. If I did anything that...upset you, I’m sorry.” 

Dean blinked. “I’m sorry?”  

“Hey, hey,” the man cooed softly as if Dean was made of glass. Did he look that fragile? “Buddy, don’t worry about it, it’s not like I”—he chuckled softly—“didn’t enjoy it.”  

And just like that Dean tumbled back down to earth, and the guilt and loathing and blistering hatred came rolling in. As if he didn’t already feel like the lowest kind of scum, the guilt in those blue eyes made him feel filthier than the mud under his boots. Dean wanted to say it was his fault, he was the one that crossed the line, but the words clung to his throat with claws.  

The stranger with the too-contrite smile took his silence as an invitation to keep talking. His lips moved, but the words made no sense until Dean heard the word “kid.”

“I’m 22, not a fucking kid,” Dean barked, his voice sharp and dripping venom. The cab shrunk around him. Patronizing kindness sliced into him. It hurt, but not the way he wanted.  

He didn’t know how to face this kind of pain, wasn’t prepared for it, so for a second time that day, Dean ran.   

=== 

Castiel was angry with himself.

He watched the boy—no, man, he was 22—run across the parking lot and jump into his car. It was getting darker, and colours bled from all around him as if plucked right out of thin air until at last, all was monochrome. The American muscle glistened in the moonlight as it pulled onto the interstate with a squeal of rubber.  

It wasn’t the first time a lost kid came knocking on his truck asking for directions, but no one ever actually wanted to look at the map. Castiel was familiar with the nervous shuffle, the way he had looked at him as if drowning. It was obvious what he was offering, especially after their earlier encounter in the bathroom.

Castiel didn’t mind; a hard tug on his cock and a hot mouth reminded him once in a while what it was like to be alive. Just because he didn’t solicit others for sex didn’t mean Castiel would turn down a pretty piece when it was offered; he was human after all.  

Castiel put the truck into reverse and focused on getting back on the road. He was glad the young man had left before things took a steamy turn. Castiel could handle runaways and the sexually confused. He even welcomed them because they always returned to whatever walks of life they came stumbling from when he was done with them. Castiel would get back in his truck and never look back.

Whatever ghosts that guy was running from, Castiel wanted no part of it.  

 _Because_ _you’re a coward_ _._ He tried to ignore the familiar voice screaming in his head. _You_ _’re so good at running away you should_ _give_ _seminars_ _._  

As hard as he tried to focus on the road, troubled green eyes haunted him with each mile. Castiel tried to let the blur of trees lull him into his usual mindless daze, but something about the boy tugged at him in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.  

The boy was running from more than just ghosts; he was desperately trying to shake off demons. It was in the shuffle of his boots and the curve of his spine as he curled in on himself; it was the way his whole body screamed with need, a silent plea for Castiel to take him in, even if for a little while. The familiar stench rolling off him had put a sour taste in Castiel’s mouth; it was too much like the fear Castiel had spent the past twenty years running from.  

Castiel ran a hand through his hair and scratched the back of his neck, the pressure of solid fingers barely eased some of the tension. He glanced at the clock, just past midnight. The highway was blissfully empty save for a couple other semis, rushing to take advantage of the lack of traffic. The Castiel of yesterday would have done the same, but the grit beneath his eyelids ate away at his concentration. Fuck.   

The truck stop was small, but it had what Castiel needed. The promise of a warm mug to tuck between his cold fingers won out over fast food, and Castiel flipped the collar of his jacket up around his ears as he made his way to the diner.  

A bell chimed as he pushed through the door, and the scent of coffee wrapped him in a warm embrace. The waitress looked up from her newspaper and waved a hand for him to take his pick; business this late at night wasn’t exactly booming.  

The table next to the window beckoned. There was only one chair, and the lack of a second seat spoke to Castiel in a way that both warmed and saddened him. This place existed for the lonely, and a second chair would only be a bitter reminder.

Castiel sank into the single chair and asked for a large coffee; the mug that was plunked down in front of him didn’t disappoint, and he sighed in muted pleasure as he wrapped cold fingers around the hot ceramic. The plump waitress came by with a bowl of creamers and sugar then left Castiel alone to stare out the window.

The sky was an inky black backdrop, turning the glass into a translucent mirror. Castiel met his own gaze, and the reflection cringed back at him; there was an emptiness there that mirrored a certain pair of green eyes.

“Well, Dean, thanks for the, um”—a voice drifted from the back of the restaurant—“rather pleasant evening. Happy doing business.”  

It was the British accent and the way he said business, like something secretive and dirty, that piqued Castiel’s interest. Curiosity killed the cat, but this time it turned the coffee sour on his tongue. Castiel half turned in his seat and tried to look inconspicuous as he played spy. The voice belonged to a short, older man, but it was the familiar silhouette in the beat-up leather jacket standing beside him that churned Castiel’s stomach.

 _Dean._ The man had called him Dean. 

That this stranger (he pointedly ignored that he was also a stranger) knew Dean’s name annoyed him. Annoyed that he never asked. Annoyed that Dean gave it so cheaply. Like a whore.  

The stran—Dean nodded slowly and murmured too softly for Castiel to hear. Something wasn’t right about the way he swayed on his feet and the vacant stare that turned those green eyes dull and lifeless, like plastic. The shorter man gave the boy (because Dean looked way too young standing there with his too-large jacket and sunken cheeks) an appreciative once over, and Castiel followed the gaze. When he finally caught up to the angry red bruise wrapped around Dean’s pale throat, the coffee pooled in his gut like acid.   

The lone chair skittered across the linoleum floor. When it finally screeched to a halt, Castiel was already striding towards the duo by the bathroom. A dull throb started at the base of his skull, and his earlier anger returned with a vengeance. Only this time, it wasn’t directed at himself.   

“What the fuck did you do to him?”  

The short, British man turned to stare at Castiel, and his wide eyes glowed under the fluorescent light. “Excuse me?” 

Castiel stepped between him and Dean. “His neck, you sick fuck.”  

“Wow, mate—” 

“The name’s Castiel. I’m not your _mate_.”

“All right, _Castiel_ ”—the man pointed a finger at Dean’s neck and snorted—“that? He wanted that. Begged me for it. Hurt my hand yanking on his damn belt doing it too.” He held up his right hand, and a faint version of the same red bruise covered his palm.  

Jesus Chris. The wind left Castiel’s sails, leaving him drained. That was what Dean had wanted from him?  

“Regardless, get away from him.”

The man was only too happy to comply. Without another word and one last filthy glance at Dean, he turned with a flutter of his long coat and left the restaurant. The bell chimed when he pulled the door open, but the ring sounded muted, distant, and no longer enchanting.  

Dean stood muted as well, staring at the toes of his boots without interest, still rocking back and forth, unaware of the hurricane that blew past him. Castiel yanked a bill from his wallet and placed it on the table nearest to them before gripping Dean’s arm and yanking him out into the night.  

The bell chimed behind them. Castiel didn’t hear it.  

=== 

The door whispered shut behind him.

Dean blinked and scanned the motel room. He tried to swallow, but his tongue was too thick, his mouth too dry. There was a weird taste lingering in the back of his throat, a flavour he didn’t dare dwell on. How did he end up here? Things had become a little blurry after he stumbled into the truck stop.  

 _Castiel_. 

Dean turned around just as Castiel twisted the lock shut—the latch catching with a loud click—and the look in his eyes was murderous. Dean withered under the stare, this time he managed to swallow, and spun quickly back to stare at the room. Anything was better than looking at those icy blue eyes. 

The bed looked soft, even if Dean was sure the mattress under the starched sheets was anything but. Castiel pushed past him and pulled clothes out of his duffle bag, his knuckles bone-white as he grabbed a t-shirt in a death grip and set it on the bed with force. The garment glared at Dean as if its suffering was all Dean’s fault. Well, maybe it was.  

The silence was killing him. He couldn’t understand the anger from his temporary and possibly unwilling roommate, but it made him feel small and a little indignant. Dean opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he pulled out the only chair in the room and tried to sit down.  

Pain shot up his rear, its tendrils spreading like fire to exit his mouth in a soft whimper. The sudden jolt to his system unlocked all the other aches in his body like a twisted video game achievement. His throat throbbed and swallowing hurt, his knees ached, and he didn’t need to look to know his torso was probably covered in a bunch of thumb-sized bruises.  

The worst was the throbbing pain circling his neck like a collar. Dean brought up two fingers to probe the tender flesh and hissed.  

“It hurts, huh?” Castiel’s voice was soft but coiled tight with controlled anger.  

“What”—Dean cleared his throat and tried not to wince—“What’s it to you?” He crossed his arms and glared at Castiel. He didn’t mean to come off like a sulking child, but the words tumbled out like trash on garbage day, and it was too late to take them back.  

Castiel was quiet, pensive, and didn’t look at Dean until he finished unpacking and threw his empty duffle on the floor. “Go take a shower.” In his outstretched hand was a pair of sleep pants and a white undershirt.  

Dean stumbled through a cursory shower and unwrapped the complimentary clear plastic toothbrush on the counter. The generic toothpaste did nothing to mask the lingering distaste of day’s events. He stepped out of the small bathroom in a puff of steam, still holding the toothbrush. Castiel sat on the edge of the bed. His elbows rested on his knees as he leaned toward the TV, his blank expression illuminated by a kaleidoscope of colours. The late night news was on; the pictures bathed the dark room in shifting colours. Castiel was glued to the story, and the tension in his shoulders gave Dean pause.  

Dean glanced at the screen and froze.  

“…Richard Roman, a.k.a. the Suicide Killer, was found guilty of 40 counts of kidnapping, one count of manslaughter, and 20 counts of first-degree murder...brothers of ages 18 and 22...”  

His ears buzzed with static, and words floated in and out like insects. Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the man etched across the dated CRT, the sharpness of his designer suit cut into Dean despite the distance. In the bottom left corner, tucked behind the man of the hour, was a face that stared back at him from the other side of a mirror every day. He looked haunted and pale.  

“...Winchester...only survivor to testify and the one that broke the case wide open…”

The female announcer’s words wrapped around his throat and squeezed; the toothbrush slipped from his hand to land a foamy mess by his bare feet. The walls rushed into him at the speed of light, then exploded out of his chest, leaving him gasping for air. Castiel turned toward him. His face was a wet blur, as was the rest of the room, as everything spun faster and faster until the floor rushed up to meet him. 

Time seemed to have stopped. He couldn’t breathe, but the handle of the toothbrush digging into his cheek was a sharp reminder that he was alive. Dean was acutely aware of the carpet against his skin, scratchy but also soft.   

Strong hands flipped him onto his back. Castiel’s face hovered above him, his mouth moving and his eyes puffy and red. Dean tried to listen, but all he could hear was the erratic pounding of his own heart. He let Castiel pull his arms over his head, and suddenly oxygen, sweet, sweet oxygen, rushed into him. Dean took a few shuddering breaths, and the darkness around the edges of his vision receded.  

Time marched by until the thud, thud, thud in his ears faded into a distant echo. Dean smiled weakly at Castiel. It must have been a rather pathetic attempt if the look on the older man’s face was anything to go by. 

“Hey, you all right?” Castiel whispered,an urgency in his voice and his brows knitted in concern. They looked like bushy caterpillars, and Dean snorted at the mental image.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean groaned. “I'm all right.” No, he really wasn’t, but Dean didn’t know how to explain that mess to a stranger he’d tried to fuck in a bathroom stall only a few hours ago. Instead, he pushed himself onto his elbows and shifted until his back pressed against the wall.  

“Yeah, right,” Castiel mumbled as he plunked himself down beside Dean. 

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face and felt the nervous twitch beneath his fingers. The news had moved on to a different story, something about the upcoming election, but Dean ignored the flickering images. Castiel sat quietly beside Dean; his shoulders drooped like the weight of the world was crushing him. His breathing was even, but occasionally there was a stutter, barely audible.  

“I...I know who you are.” All traces of Castiel’s anger had vanished, replaced by a mixture of something Dean couldn’t put his finger on. Guilt? Shame? Relief? “Winchester. You’re Dean Winchester.”  

His face had been on TV for months after the trial, his name printed in newspapers distributed in towns Dean had never heard of. Rarely, though, did someone connect the name to his face.  

Dean wanted to run away. Be anywhere but there.  

“You put him away,” Castiel wheezed.  

Dean leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he dropped his forehead into waiting hands. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”  

“I was one of them. He killed Gabriel,” Castiel blurted at the same time.  

Their voices bounced off the wall in hollow echoes.  

=== 

To say Castiel barely held himself together was an understatement. His whole body vibrated as if every molecule was trying to break free from overwhelming, bone crushing panic.  

Twenty years of running, of staying ahead of himself lest the demons caught him, and it all came down to one piece of late night news and a cruel joke played by the Fates. Castiel forced himself to look at Dean’s slim silhouette seated less than a foot away, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging low in his hands.  

Dean was so broken he didn’t know how to pick up the pieces. Instead, he mutilated himself with the jagged edges until he couldn’t feel a damn thing. Castiel would know; the years melted from him until he was eighteen again, and blood dripped from cuts made with the same sharp edges.

The feature presentation of Castiel’s repressed memories was about to start. No previews, no upcoming films to open the horror show that began Castiel’s adulthood. Only this time, his wasn’t the only movie playing; Dean’s story would be the same, only a reboot with an updated cast and better props.  

“I…” Castiel’s throat was dry when he swallowed, like cinnamon and sawdust sprinkled with dreaded terror.  

“Look, man, I’m sorry,” Dean growled as he turned his wild eyes on Castiel; they were glittering with unshed tears.  

“I know,” Castiel whispered hoarsely. “We don’t need to talk, I just...” Pushing himself onto his knees, Castiel crawled over to Dean until they were inches apart.  

Dean studied him as he chewed the corner of his bottom lip. “What do you want from me?”  

“Can I just...hold you?” Castiel’s hands shook. He balled them into fists so tight his nails dug into the meat of his palms. 

Green eyes bore into him as silence stretched on like bubble gum until suddenly, the bubble popped, and Dean wasn’t the broken thing that had come crawling up to Castiel’s truck anymore. His expression darkened, and Castiel felt the familiar ooze of fear trickling down his spine.  

“I don’t cuddle,” Dean replied flatly.

“Oh...I...tha—”  

The younger man’s hand shot out to grasp the front of Castiel’s shirt and yank him in for a crushing kiss. Castiel froze, but Dean ignored his rigidity and pushed on, his tongue licking at the seam of Castiel’s mouth before forcing its way in. He nipped at Castiel’s bottom lip before pulling away and pushing Castiel back roughly. Castiel’s head bounced against the cheap carpet as he fell, but he ignored the pain as Dean crowded back into his personal space and reclaimed his mouth.

It took his heart skipping a few more beats before Castiel recovered from the shock and sheer ferocity of Dean’s advances. He sprawled on the floor with Dean’s knees shoved between the vee of his thighs and his fingers pushing up Castiel’s shirt. Blunt nails raked along heated skin; it was the right side of painful and Castiel keened softly. Try as he might, he couldn’t conjure up the will to push Dean off, or maybe, he didn’t want to.  

He craved the sharp drag of teeth and nails on his flesh, couldn’t get enough of it, and the emptiness Castiel had been running away from for so many years ached to be filled. 

“P-please…” The word slipped out so easily it left Castiel spinning.  

“Please what?” Dean panted.  

“I just...I need…” Castiel forced himself to look into Dean’s face; the demon they were both running from stared back at him.  

“I know.” Dean’s face twisted into something unrecognizable. “I know what you need.”

Castiel’s response was cut off when Dean shoved his tongue back into his mouth. His lips were demanding, his teeth nipping and biting savagely until Castiel’s mouth was a sea of flames. There was a hint of desperation behind the harsh rasp of Dean’s breath on his tongue, but Castiel ignored the taste of it lest his own despair dragged them both down.  

Everything about the encounter was wrong, from the press of Dean’s chilled hands against his heated skin to the relentless dig of his knee against Castiel’s groin. And yet some things seemed to slip right into place, like Dean’s lips slotted just right against his mouth and the sure way Castiel’s fingers curled around Dean’s slim hips. They were two broken puzzle pieces coming together in a cacophonic snap that somehow just _worked_. Together, they made music in whimpers and moans and whispered pleas.    

Castiel lost himself somewhere between the hard bite of Dean’s teeth and the rapid redirection of blood from his brain to his dick. The memories that threatened to overwhelm him fought valiantly, but the shield of Dean-induced fog held its ground; when Dean ripped his shirt over his head and latched cruelly onto Castiel’s left nipple, Castiel lost the ability to draw air into his lungs. 

It hurt. Everywhere Dean touched hurt. It was an exhilarating blend of pain and pleasure teetering on a knife’s edge, leaving Castiel’s lashes wet with unshed tears. A rough hand shoved down the front of his pants. He yelped, but when calloused fingers wrapped around the delicate skin of Castiel’s erection, it was all Castiel could do to not break down and cry.  

Dean let go of Castiel’s nipple—the nub throbbing from abuse—and reared up as he tugged on Castiel’s cock. Something akin to madness flittered across Dean’s serpentine eyes, the mesmerizing green of his irises halos around his lust-blown pupils, and his fingers squeezed Castiel’s dick until it hurt.  

Dean’s free hand slid around Castiel’s throat and squeezed slowly. The pressure built until it mimicked the pressure around his cock. Castiel’s thrashing weakened until he sank, light-headed and hypnotized by the constricting sensation cocooned around him.  

Darkness ringed the edges of his vision, along with a fuzziness that tickled his brain. His cock leaked freely, the fluid smearing into his skin as Dean’s fingers spread pearl after pearl down the shaft with each punishing stroke. Castiel met every rub of Dean’s fingers with a desperate thrust. Every pull of oxygen into his lungs was a goddamn battle, and every laboured exhale stuttered in time with his hips as he chased his imminent release.  

“I know this hurts,” Dean grunted, his breathing as laboured as Castiel’s, “but I need you to come for me.”

It should take more than that, but all was blinding whiteness, and rigid muscles as Castiel shouted his orgasm. Ropes of sticky release coated the inside of his underwear and seeped into the seams between Dean’s fingers as the younger man stroked him gently through the tremors. The hand around Castiel’s throat loosened, and when the first cool gasp of air hit Castiel’s burning lungs, he choked.  

The room was silent save for their ragged breathing. Castiel stared up at Dean and found himself eerily calm. His arms were leaden, his body bonelessly loose, and his head clear and mercifully empty. Fear and anxiety drained out of him along with his cooling spend, all of it a sticky, dripping mess inside Castiel’s pants.  

Beads of sweat rolled down the side of Dean’s face, and he looked as if whatever he did to Castiel hurt him just as much. They stared at each other for a heartbeat longer, then Dean pulled his hand away and rolled off Castiel with a soft grunt.  

They sprawled side by side, their shoulders touching, and Castiel wondered which was filthier, him or the ratty motel carpet.  

“It was the hardest thing,” Dean said, “looking him in the eye and letting him see that he’s still got that hold over me.” His voice was tight and small, like a quivering soft thing that needed to be protected. “I had to tell them everything. Don’t leave any details out, they said”—he shuddered and turned on his side, his knees tucked close to his chest—“and to stand up there, alone, so everyone could stare at me with those fucking eyes, like some animal that needed to be pitied.”   

Every word lanced into Castiel, each one ripping a hole in his chest. Silence stretched between them like a tangible thing, thick and suffocating. There were a million things Castiel wanted to say to Dean, but he was never good with words, so he just laid there, his pants growing colder and the calmness receding until it was but a distant memory. 

Hidden by the shadows of the dimly lit room Dean’s shoulders shook, the inconspicuous quivers growing in severity until his whole body shook with jarring sobs. Castiel didn’t know how Dean stomached it, testifying. The very idea of being in the same room as that man was a fist around his gut, squeezing until bile suffocated him.  

When Dean broke the silence once more, he was murmuring softly. Castiel leaned in closer to listen, only to recoil when he heard the words.  

“It was supposed to be me,” Dean mumbled into his knees, his voice so tiny and wretched. “It was the wrong brother. Sammy was supposed to live. It was supposed to be me,” Dean chanted the words over and over, in no particular order. A hint of madness crept into Dean’s voice, growing until he was clawing at his own face with such force Castiel had to pull his hands away.

“Jesus, Dean,” Castiel gasped and gripped Dean’s wrists tightly, pulling them both up until they sat huddled against the wall. Angry welts stood out against Dean’s freckled skin like a twisted game of connect-the-dots, and beads of blood filled the crack where the skin had split. “I’m so sorry. So, so, so sorry.” Dean thrashed and tried to pull away, but Castiel held on tightly, and if that meant bruises on those delicate wrists in the morning, then so be it. 

Wild eyes turned on Castiel, and the anger there burnt him like acid. “Do you know how he got caught?” Dean sneered, his face twisted with so much self-loathing and disgust. “They all make me out to be a hero, a fucking survivor, but I was a coward. A fucking coward that couldn’t even protect his little brother.” 

“Dean, plea—” 

“No! Don’t you dare!” Dean screamed and pushed Castiel away. “He came in with the gun and handed it to me. He told me if I killed myself he’d let Sam go,” Dean sobbed, “but Sam...fuck. Sam grabbed it and h-he—”

“Dean, you don’t need to do this,” Castiel pleaded.

“W-when Sam…died,” Dean carried on as if Castiel hadn’t spoken. He was crying openly, tears flowing down his cheeks unfettered, salty droplets mixed with open wounds to drip pink down his chin, “he rushed in and hugged Sam. He kept on screaming that it was the wrong brother.” 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Castiel countered, but his voice lacked conviction. If the tables were turned and Castiel was in Dean’s shoes, he knew there would be nothing in this world that would convince him it wasn’t his fault.  

Dean glared at him through wet lashes. “Don’t you dare take their side. I ran, Cas. I ran like hell, and when they went back for him, he was still holding the body, like he was really upset that Sam was dead.” Dean hugged his knees closer and swallowed back a broken sob. “Mom and dad act like they’re grateful they’ve got me back, but I can feel it; I can see how much they miss him. So don’t you look at me like I had anything to do with putting him away. If I were half the man your brother was, Sam would still be alive.” 

It was the ease with which those words tumbled from Dean’s lips—like Sam would be living a carefree, guiltless life where this once-in-a-lifetime lottery event hadn’t left its devastating mark—that set Castiel off.  

“Alive like I’m alive, _Dean_?” Castiel shouted as he scrambled to his feet. Twenty years worth of pent up rage came rushing out of him. “Do you think it’s easy living with myself? Watching my brother die in front of me? Watching it happen over and over in my goddamn nightmares?” He was screaming, his voice ringing in his ears, but he didn’t care. “You think if you had died, Sam would have gone on to live a normal life?” 

“He’d be alive,” Dean answered, jutting out his chin. 

“Do I look like I’m living a normal fucking life to you?” Castiel bellowed. “I live in a goddamn truck. I have no home, no family. I have one friend in the whole world, and I see him only when work is too slow for me to keep running.” The dam splintered and the words poured out, tripping over themselves. “Your brother, he gave you a gift, and you throw it away with stupid bathroom hookups and hurting yourself?”  

“I’m not throwing my life away any more than you are,” Dean snapped.

Castiel stood stunned. His own words sank their teeth into him, holding on like a rabid dog until Castiel finally allowed himself to hear the words he’d ignored all these years. His life was also a goddamn gift, one that Gabriel had given to him at the cost of his own. He was his brother’s legacy, and when Castiel looked back on the empty years, he had nothing to show for them other than a hefty sum in his bank account and some clothes in a duffle bag.  

Those years were lost, blown away like smoke in the vast, empty plains of Castiel’s life. He gave up; he ran away. He played victim because the monster that had punched a hole in his future was still out there, taunting him in his nightmares. Castiel blinked back tears—Dean’s huddled figure blurring in the dim light—and envied Dean’s youth; it wasn’t too late for him.  

He screwed his eyes shut and willed away the tears. If Gabriel was waiting for him with a stick and an eternity’s worth of disappointment by the gates of hell, at least Castiel knew he deserved it. Slowly he sank beside Dean, exhausted.  

“You’re right. I’ve been burying my head in the sand.” The words tasted good, a cold drink on parched tongue. Who knew being honest could be so freeing? “Take it from the asshole that’s been running away for far too long; you don’t want to go down this road, Dean. It’s really fucking lonely.”  

“Why do you care?” Dean’s voice quivered. He leaned in close, and all the fight leaked out of him in quiet sighs.

“Because”—Castiel took a deep breath and exhaled slowly—“I was a little brother too.”   

The sob that escaped Dean’s lips was jagged and raw and oh-so desperate. Carefully, as if Dean would disintegrate if he so much as breathed the wrong way, Castiel gathered the man into his arms and held him.  

=== 

For the first time in months, Dean woke up warm and content. His head was heavy, and his limbs tingled. He’d been crying, if the dry pressure behind his eyes was anything to go by, but most importantly, he knew where he was (Limon, Colorado, motel room) and who he was with (Castiel, the bastard he broke down in front of last night). He couldn’t remember how he got into bed (no big surprise there), but that small memory gap was a lot better than opening his eyes and not knowing how many days had passed or how many dudes he’d blown in bathrooms and alleyways.  

Baby steps were the key to improvement, his therapist always said.  

Warm air tickled the back of his neck. Dean’s breath froze on the exhale, every muscle tense as he locked up like a corpse. The unmistakable press of a body—Castiel’s body, soft with sleep—radiated warmth against his bare back, and an arm draped carelessly across his hip. Dean tried to move away, but the slight shift earned him the slide of a leg across his calves and Castiel snuggled closer, trapping him in his embrace.  

Extricating himself from those long limbs made Dean think he could start a new life as a contortionist. Castiel stirred and blinked awake; his eyes were bloodshot, and the circles underneath them would put a panda to shame. Dean would laugh, but he probably looked just as terrible, if not worse.  

Sunlight filtered through the gaps between the curtains, illuminating the tiny dust motes as they danced unfettered. Dean followed the specks as they twirled lazily, and if that meant he wouldn’t have to look the man lying next to him in the eyes, then that was a bonus.  

“Morning, Dean.” Castiel’s voice was heavy with sleep, but the tenderness made Dean’s throat constrict. 

“Y-yeah, morning, Cas.” 

“Cas,” Castiel repeated the nickname Dean had inadvertently given him. “I like that.” He smiled. It was a shy smile that was way too private, too personal, and Dean felt like an intruder as he gazed upon it.  

They said little as the morning moseyed on. Neither of them mentioned the events of the night before as they danced around each other lightly, like butterflies, in the small motel room. It took getting dressed and brushing his teeth, checking out of the room, and grabbing a cup of coffee at the diner with Castiel before Dean realised the weight on his chest was missing.  

Blue eyes studied him from across the  table. “You all right?”  

“Yeah, just, I’m really sorry about last night,” Dean croaked and stared at the napkin he was shredding. His cheeks burnt with shame at the memories, and it took every ounce of self-control for Dean to keep his ass glued to the chair.  

“Which part?” Castiel smirked and cocked a brow at him as he ran a finger around the rim of his mug.  

“All of it?” Dean pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and worried at the flesh until it was numb. “The crying, the...nastiness. Me forcing myself on you…” 

“Pretty sure I was partly to blame for that.” Castiel’s smirk softened into something like the ghost of a smile. Dean nodded but said nothing. He looked down at his bacon and eggs and, although the thought of eating still made him sick, he pushed through it instead of pushing the food away. 

They spent the rest of breakfast in comfortable silence. Despite his fervent protest, Castiel settled the bill. They left the diner and stepped into the brisk morning air. The Impala sat patiently where Dean left her, unwavering as she waited for Dean to pick up the pieces of his life. Maybe he wasn’t ready to face the atrocities of the past few months, but it was as good a time as any to start.  

“Go home, Dean.”  

“You’re not the boss of me,” Dean retorted with no real heat behind his words. He turned to face the older man and noted a slight change in the way Castiel held himself, as if he was also feeling that same weightlessness.  

“No, you are.” Castiel closed the distance between them and pulled Dean into a bone crushing hug. “Take care, Dean.”  

Castiel turned and walked towards his truck with a spring in his step. Dean shielded his eyes against the glare of the morning sun. He watched as the man climbed into the cabin and pulled the semi out of the parking lot. Sadness descended on him, and Dean kicked himself for not asking for a phone number or an email.     

Dean waited until the truck was but a dot on the horizon before trudging over to his car. When he dug into his left jacket pocket for his keys, a small piece of paper fluttered to the ground at his feet. He bent down to pick it up and unfolded it to find a phone number and the name that would change his life forever.  

Cas Novak.


End file.
